A Story About Me: Cecil Gershwin Palmer
by StrawhatAtHeart
Summary: A short drabble I wrote as an exercise to try and mimic Night Vale's Style. It is based off of the Horoscope Predictions from Episode 51: Rumblings. What if Cecil decided to heed the stars guidance?


Life is full of painful things, memories, relationships, memories of said relationships and the pitiful corner of your home where you go to cry, as you drink to forget. Welcome to Nightvale

Today I am going to tell a story about me, dear listeners. I am not one to be overly narcissistic, but in the absence of other news my management feels that the show must still go on. This story took place this morning, for those of us who experience time in terms of twenty four hour days. I had awoken from a particularly pathetic night's sleep to the otherworldly mewling of my cat Khoshekh. Many of you have heard me refer to Khoshekh before as the cat who previously floated in a fixed state in the men's bathroom here at the station before being brutally attacked by one of Strex Corps artificial monstrosities. Since then I have been lovingly transporting him between my home and the station, his company filing an otherwise empty place in my heart. But let's not dwell on that.

I got out of bed, opened a can of cat food, and left it on the counter where Khoshekh could reach it. My head ached and pulsed with every step I took. I didn't mind though. The pain kept me distracted. It kept my mind from wandering. Wandering to something worse than physical pain. I checked the phone that lay on my bedside table. Once again it was devoid of texts or voicemails. A tight sensation knotted in my chest. I picked up the half empty liquor bottle that sat next to my lamp and drank. The alcohol burned my raw throat and made my headache worse, but it served to distract me from the uncomfortable sensation in my chest.

A bell chime from my kitchen caught my attention. I recognized it as the automatic coffeemaker that had been given to me by a group of interns last Christmas. It has the ability to predict when I will wake up the next morning and turn on at that time. I had originally found the idea of having a machine that could predict the future in my home slightly unsettling, especially after that live report at Nightvale Elementary School, but when I looked at all those interns smiling faces I couldn't say no. That reminds me, to the parents of Intern Charlotte, who disappeared while exploring the patch of void that appeared under the music board in studio 13, she was a good intern and shall be missed. Now back to the story.

I pocketed my empty messaging device into the pocket of my NVCR pajama pants and followed the hypnotizing chime into the kitchen. Khoshekh was slowly absorbing the cat food I had left for him. I patted his adorable little head and he rubbed against me in contentment. My coffee sat steaming in my 'World's Best Radio Host' mug under the coffeepot. The sight of the seemingly normal ceramic mug caused the strange sensation to return to my chest, stronger now. I quickly turned away, resorting to finishing the bottle of liquor that still hung in my hand. The wave of dulled senses that followed quelled the tightness that had formed inside of me. I left the steaming cup of coffee behind me and opted to get ready for the day.

I do not wish to bore you with the details of my morning routine, as they are rather mundane. I showed, shaved, got dressed, checked to make sure all the mirrors in my house have not been accidently uncovered by Khoshekh, and momentarily stared blankly into the morning sun while I contemplated why it continues to return every day. The faceless old woman, who after losing the latest mayoral campaign had returned to living in my home, had glued my tooth brush to the sink. I took this as a sign of her disappointment in my latest pastime. 'I never asked for your opinion!' I shouted to her from my place at the bathroom sink.

Before the two of us could continue our conversation however, a sickening screeching sound from my kitchen rudely interrupted. I quickly rushed to the origin of the noise only to find that my coffee pot was creating a small vortex within my kitchen. It would seem that by not drinking the coffee it made, I had somehow offended the machine. The screech had come from Khoshekh, whose tail was being violently pulled into the bowels of the coffee spout. I reacted quickly. I armed myself with a broom from the nearby pantry and cautiously navigated through the vortex of flying kitchenware to where the coffeepot sat. It glared at me through its blood red control screen. 'WHY DIDN'T YOU DRINK YOUR COFFEE?' it screamed at me through some form of demonic telepathy.

'I didn't want coffee!' I argued, ducking as the contents of my knife holder hurled towards my head.

'LIAR!' It wailed in my mind, 'YOU ARE AVOIDING ME ON PURPOSE! ITS BECAUSE HE-' The mind curdling wail was cut short as I forcefully drove the handle of the broom into the tiny screen. The touch pad cracked and the machine sparked and shook violently. Khoshekh scrambled to pull his tail out just as the corrupted device combusted in a small almost firework like reaction. _Great_ I thought staring at the blackened circle stain on my counter top _Now I have to get a new coffeepot and replace the countertop._ I reassuringly patted Khoshekh, who had retreated to my side. The simple ceramic mug that had started this whole fiasco sat in the center of the circle. I was unsure whether I was happy or disappointed by that.

I decided to ignore the mixture of feelings growing uncomfortably inside me and left my smoldering and messy kitchen. I put on my favorite pair of worn leather sandals and walked out to the hallway. It didn't seem like the noise had disturbed any of my neighbors as they had yet to fill the space outside my apartment holding pitchforks and erecting a cursed blood stone circle to smite me with. I moved quickly down the hall to the elevator and pushed the down button. The metal grate pulled back to reveal the black portal beyond. 'The first floor' I annunciated clearly before stepping through. I can still remember when I first moved to my apartment. It was, at first, scary waking up in my new home, unable to say goodbye to my family. Did I even have a family? Who knows? I can still remember having to acquaint myself with how everything worked. How to get the shower to just the right temperature, below boiling but above freezing, and figuring out which doors were real and which were just pitfalls into never ending void. The elevator to the lobby was the largest obstacle of all. One stutter and you could have ended up in the dumpster behind Big Rico's Pizza. Ah, good times.

I exited the elevator and stepped into the lobby. My landlady, a stout elderly woman by the name of Mrs. Kurtis, was reading the imagination edition of the Nightvale Post behind her desk. I waved to her out of respect, a gesture she did not see but I'm sure on some subconscious level appreciated. I checked my mail box. Just like my phone it was empty. I reasoned it was probably linked yet another incident at the post office. It didn't seem very probable but it helped to quell the unpleasant sensation nagging at the front of my ribcage. Instead of going back to my apartment and squandering the morning more than I already had I set out to my car.

I felt myself smile as I skimmed the many complimentary NRA and NVCR bumper stickers that adorned the back of my vehicle. The driver side door stuck. I jiggled the key in the small lock under the door handle but to no avail. I mumbled something I cannot repeat on public radio under my breath. I reclaimed my keys from the troublesome lock and kicked the side of my car. It looked like I was stuck walking. I stuffed my hands into the pockets of my furry pants while I subconsciously wrapped my fingers around my phone in the unlikely case that it would ring.

The desert sun was already high in the sky. I had had the pleasure of hearing the usually boisterous sunrise earlier that morning before I had drifted off to sleep. Its unfathomable light bore down on my skin, filling my body with its warmth and cancer. I found myself wandering into the Moonlite All Nite Diner where the florescent green neon sign shone brightly into the blue expanse above me. I sat down at the bar counter and listened to the morning farm report coming weakly from the foam tiled ceiling. I ordered a cup of coffee, more out of routine than actual desire, and chatted with the young waitress there. I couldn't read the glyphs on her nametag so I am unsure what her name actually was, but she was a very nice young lady.

I was enjoying the small buzz of the caffeine running through my system when my phone vibrated. Someone was calling me. Excitement bubbled in my chest as I pulled out the device, only to notice the caller ID. It was _STEVE, STEVE CALRSBURG. _Unfortunately we have run out of time for that conversation since it is time for _the weather._

Without You By Avril L. Plays

Welcome back dear listeners, unlike previous weathers, nothing has transpired. Everything thing is as it was before I left. There is no news. In fact there isn't even much of a story left. I escorted Janice to school, seeing as _someone's tan corolla_ broke down, and then went to the supermarket to replace the countertop and coffee maker. I received a rather questionable glare from the cashier but made no attempt to explain myself. I only then realized that seeing I was without a car I would have to carry the substantial slab of marble home by myself.

I was about halfway there when on of the Erikas, who was sitting outside with Old Woman Josie out back of the car lot, came to assist me. With their strange beast like strength they were able to carry the processed minal slab with ease. They offered to install the new counter piece, but I politely declined. I needed to get to work, else I would face yet another retraining session in the dark box. I created a modest PB&J sandwich and, with Khoshekh on my shoulder, set off to the radio station.

I had long since finished my meager lunch by the time I came to the daunting front steps of the Night Vale Community Radio building. Intern Maureen greeted me as I, quite literally, dragged myself into the studio. She offered me a glass of refreshing orange juice, but I decided to stick with water. And so my show began listeners, and I began to tell you about my day. A day that has passed in a drunken haze of mixed emotions and inconvenience. A day of no news to speak of, a day that will not be remembered come tomorrow.

Or possibly not listeners. Intern Maureen is signaling to me through a series of crude gestures, hey that is not a nice kind hand signal Maureen, that something is happening outside the studio. Hold on listeners, Maureen is writing on a piece of paper. Ok she's holding it up now, it reads: The door is outside the studio! in big bold letters. Door? What door? There are many doors. Intern Maureen, I think you've had a little too much OJ for one day.

It seems she is making yet another note. It reads: Carlos- Oh my dear listeners. It reads: Carlos has come back. Listeners, I can not begin to explain the overwhelming emotion that is rising inside me. Its like when you've forgotten something precious to you, something irreplaceable, and you have long since given up searching for it and then, and then you _find it. _You find that precious thing that you had so disastrously forced yourself to forget under mountains of beer bottles and shot glasses. I had forgotten something, no someone, very precious to me, dear listeners, and now, now I have found him. I, I must leave. But as always, goodnight Night Vale, good night.

Carlos! Carlos!? I'm coming, Carlos!


End file.
